Change
by Nakanna Lee
Summary: Sequel to my fic Home. Just because he's moved out of House's apartment doesn't mean that Wilson has solved the problem. Friendship, slash. Reviews much appreciated! Final 2 chpts added!
1. Game Plan

If you haven't read my other fic, "Home," you'll want to do that before starting this, considering it's the sequel. (I felt bad for leaving Wilson hanging in the first one. And I let House off the hook way too easily.) I don't own the show or the characters. I also don't own any MLB teams, which is fine, though I would love to cut down the Yankees payroll and dismember the Evil Empire. How I digress. Reviews are appreciated!

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"Dr. Wilson." Cuddy handed the oncologist a stack of files that could have jolted the Richter scale. "I need you to take a look at these." She looked at the typically prompt doctor, skeptically. "You're a week behind."

"And suddenly cancer has taken over the world."

Wilson turned to find House approaching them both, noticeably limping as usual. He faltered for an instant, but House wasn't looking directly at him anyway. Fourteen days after he moved out, the least Wilson expected was eye contact, but he wasn't even getting that, much less serious conversation. The older man nodded at Dr. Cuddy.

"I have a patient in Room Two for clinic duty."

Cuddy was sarcastically impressed. "Congratu_la_tions, House."

"No. She's yours. Anyone who's convinced there's a medical reason why their hair is turning purple isn't my problem."

Wilson blinked. "_Is_ it turning purple?"

"Yes," House replied, eyes widening and brows rising with his mock-serious look. "And if we don't do something soon, she'll be a grape in an hour."

Cuddy frowned and shook her head, watching as he hobbled off. "Glad to see he's in a good mood."

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Wilson hadn't exactly known what to expect in the days after he kissed House that evening. Maybe some disgruntled protests, a degrading scoff, anything but this abrasive apathy. Nothing. House acted as if Wilson were a complete black hole in the center of the hospital, one that should be avoided at all costs with the risk of getting too near, being sucked into it, having oneself torn apart to the nuclear core.

The oncologist saw the kiss objectively now, and it embarrassed him. It was a photograph in Wilson's mind, blistered by the intensity of the moment, contorted and made into something it wasn't and could never be.

It was a haunting freeze-frame of a mistake.

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He lugged the files to his office, perusing their pages as he went along. 43-year old female, ovarian cancer. A 15-year-old field hockey player with leukemia. Some suspicious looking blotches on brain scans, liver scans, heart scans, lung scans that he should take a look at. The silky, skeletal structure of the images seemed ghostly and distant. He sighed.

And walked straight into Cameron.

"Hey. We need you for the white board."

Wilson glanced up at her, slightly puzzled. He'd just seen House, and obviously he hadn't mentioned anything.

Cameron caught the look but remained seamlessly deadpan. "House just asked me to tell you."

The oncologist sighed. If House insisted on sending messengers to avoid speaking to him in person, their friendship was going to become one stressful marathon for the ducklings.

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"Welcome to the ball game, Dr. Wilson. You missed a stirring seventh inning stretch, but you're just in time to catch the action in the bottom of the ninth."

Typical House. He looked deceptively tall today, the sleek cut of his black suit dramatically long against the sharp cobalt of his shirt underneath. Wilson averted his eyes from the other man's, whose orbs were a swollen shade of blue. Hair frazzled. Unshaven.

Wilson's skin prickled, recalling how the roughness burned on his face again.

House waited for Wilson to take a seat at the table with Cameron, Chase, and Foreman, but as usual, the oncologist favored to stand. Unsteadily, for a moment, but he did stand.

A slightly muted noise emanated from the corner of the room—the TV was turned to FOX, featuring the major league baseball match-up at noon.

Wilson cleared his throat, nodding at the television. "Who's playing?"

House tapped the white board impatiently with the erasable marker. "Up here. We don't watch TV while we're trying to work. It's unprofessional."

"Ah, yes. How silly of me." Wilson risked a smile, but it fell passed House's acknowledgement.

"Foreman, give him the lineup."

Wilson accepted the scan from the neurologist. A quick glance showed nothing noteworthy. It seemed to be a blandly normal head scan. He began to say as much, but House was already barging ahead in the brainstorming session.

"The patient's team is down two runs with one out to go. She's got a man on first and second, and her best hitter is up to bat." House scribbled something on the board; Wilson read the words silently as he went along.

1st base: _Twitching in the arms_

2nd base: _Lack of eye control _

"The first one nailed a single down center field," House explained wryly as he downed a Vicodin. "The other reached base on an error."

"The patient's symptoms are your winning runs?"

"Only her _potential_ winning runs. They're still stuck standing in the infield and waiting for the batter to come through."

Cameron rubbed her temples slightly. Chase and Foreman exchanged amused shrugs.

"And what's happening with the batter?" Wilson prompted.

"Nothing much, unfortunately. We've thrown him a curve ball—"

_MRI_

"A slider—"

_Tox screen_

"And a change-up—"

_CT scan_

"And he hasn't bitten on any of them."

Wilson's mind raced to keep up with him. "What's the count?"

"0-3." House narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the board. He sighed. "We gotta make him swing."

"Doesn't look like cancer," murmured Wilson.

"How about we try taking her off the endorphins?" Cameron broke in. "That might not solve everything, but indirectly it could—"

Frustrated, House spread his arms. "You can't _bunt_ with only one out left!"

Cameron flushed, annoyed. "And you can't use sports analogies for medicine," she retorted.

"Maybe you should watch a little more ESPN instead of wasting all that time studying," House snipped. "Now. Where were we?"

"What if we pulled the pitcher?" Wilson suggested suddenly. "We could give the batter a different look."

"Meaning…?" Foreman prompted.

"It obviously looks neurological. But Foreman's used up everything he has. Cameron's still sitting in the bullpen."

"In English?" Cameron interrupted.

"Check for immunity weaknesses. If the scans didn't show any growths, maybe it isn't as bad as the symptoms want us to believe."

"They're taking a lead off of second base…" House mused.

"Yes. But not quite stealing. The symptoms could be bluffing to distract the pitcher."

"They're making us throw what the batter isn't even looking for." House nodded, turning to Cameron. "So. What's in the strike zone?"

Cameron looked like she was ready to strangle someone. "I have no _idea_ what you're talking about—"

"Sheesh, relax. Get some Cracker Jacks or something," House muttered. He threw Wilson a glance, which was returned with a smile and stifled laugh.

"We could hang a banana bag and see if the electrolytes balanced out," Chase offered.

"Simple, and yet incredibly tempting to swing at," House reasoned. "All right. Do it. We should know in a half hour if it's working."

"Swing, batter, batter," Wilson said offhandedly as he watched the interns file out of the room. House was whirling his cane, eyes running over the list of symptoms and suggestions.

He didn't say anything.

"House…" Wilson paused. "It was obvious it wasn't cancer."

The Vicodin rattled as House unearthed it again from his pocket. "People miss things."

"Right. But you usually don't need any assistance seeing and overlooking what will help you."

"Touché." House mockingly waved the cane as if it were a sword. Wilson risked another smile, and actually got one in return.

"So. Why did you want me here?"

"You've been avoiding me."

"_I've_ been avoiding _you_?"

"Yes. Under the guise that _I've_ been the evasive one."

"That's a lie."

"I brought up meeting for lunch on Monday. You said you didn't like cafeteria food."

"I don't."

"That's a sudden occurrence. You could've come with me anyway. And I invited you over for dinner yesterday, too."

"I had a lot of work."

"Obviously. Considering you're a week behind."

Wilson paused, guilt spreading across his skin like a bad suntan. It had been so much easier to claim House was the one keeping him at arm's distance. It was almost relieving to go back to his own apartment, away from House, and not have to worry about the next moment he'd have an impulse to kiss him again.

Like now. Now would be a very bad time for that impulse to jumpstart some irrational action.

The younger man froze as House brushed by him, the black sleeve of his open suit running against Wilson's white overcoat like a late evening shadow. Hobbling toward the TV, House snatched the remote from one of the chairs. He turned the volume up, then announced critically,

"Mets and Phillies. The diagnosis doesn't look good."

Wilson's arm tingled erratically from where House had inadvertently touched him. "Phillies are going to get killed," he managed.

"Ah, well." He flipped to another station, vainly searching for a substitute game. His eyes roamed the scrolling bottom line on ESPN. "Looks like Beantown plays tonight. Classic rivalry with the Yankees. Wanna come over?"

The words reached Wilson's ears in corrugated streams. It all seemed surreal and detached. House was asking him over? The same House who could've cared less a mere two weeks ago? He waited, expecting some artificially coy remark to negate the offer.

"I know, Boston's pitching sucks, but…"

"Sure." Wilson loathed his voice for cracking. He had to stop that. "Sounds good. Seven o'clock?"

"Yeah." House had returned to studying the TV, which struck Wilson as interesting, given that it was only another boring insurance commercial. "Bring beer or something. I'll order out."

"Chinese?" The words came tentatively. House's reaction was quick, brittle.

"I hate that stuff."


	2. Boys of Summer

"Do you know," House began slowly, "what Stalin's reaction was to Truman's announcement of the atomic bomb?"

"He obviously didn't put in a good word in for Japan."

House grinned, taking another lengthy sip of whiskey. "Obviously."

Another run scored for Boston, bumping the score up to 3-1 in the bottom of the eighth. New York still hadn't managed to get any outs in the inning.

There'd yet to be any bench-clearing brawls and outward shows of bad blood. Overall, the game had been depressingly boring, as witnessed by House, Wilson, and a fair share of whiskey and beer bottles that now adorned the coffee table in a rather convoluted maze.

Wilson's tie had long been loosened and discarded; House, shirt rumpled, had ditched his suit and changed into a more comfortable pair of jeans. Both men had their feet propped up between the auburn-gold and green bottles. An empty pizza box was strewn across the floor somewhere. Wilson had, by habit, risen to throw it out, but House had caught him by the sleeve and convinced him to be sloppy once in his life. The younger man relented, easing himself back down on the familiar couch beside House. He'd forgotten how much he missed it.

On TV, the crowd griped as a homerun ball was called back.

"Stalin said, 'I hope you use it wisely.'"

Wilson nodded slowly. The alcohol was sweeping his mind into blurred, orderly, simple lines. "Words of wisdom."

"No. Cowardly words." House sat down a half-filled whiskey glass. "If he were smart, he would've goaded Truman on. Stalin should've _dared_ the US to drop one on them."

"Oh, yeah, brilliant move." Wilson rolled his eyes in amusement. "How _is_ it that you haven't tried your hand at politics yet, House? Nothing like some more nuclear warfare to solve a problem. Way to heat up the Cold War."

"No, think about it. The more blatantly a person suggests something, the less likely it'll be that the other will actually follow through."

"No way. Goading only encourages."

"It intimidates. I'll prove it."

"Fine. Go."

"Kiss me."

"_What_?" Wilson pulled back abruptly.

"See?" House broke into a self-righteous smirk. "If Stalin had done what any respectable dictator would do, _that _would've been Truman's reaction: too shocked to follow through with the actual, irreversible act."

"So you…you don't think I'd kiss you?" Wilson fumbled.

"Definitely not."

"You're wrong. I'll prove it."

"Fine. Go."

Wilson watched him for what seemed like an hour, as if he were trying to pinpoint House's lips on his face. The broadcaster on TV was making some horrifically humorless joke that was, on some level existence, meant to be funny. The crowd cheered. Another run for Boston.

Wilson leaned back on the couch, smugly, and resisted the urge to watch the stunned look fall in waves across House's face, like an unexpected undertow.

"No."

"_What_?"

"No. Goading doesn't always work. And neither does reverse psychology."

"You're too drunk to start talking about psychology."

"Yeah, well, I'm too drunk to kiss you, too."

House weighed the silence between them, verging on a moping quiet. "You're too drunk to drive home," he pointed out, for lack of anything better to say.

"I'll call a cab. Take a bus. Or something."

"Or you can just crash here."

"Fine." The crowd on TV gave a subtle sigh as the fans took their seats. Fielders came in to be batters; batters ditched their helmets and grabbed their gloves. "Oh, look, the inning's over."


	3. Conscience

_Hey, Jimmy_.

House! I thought I got rid of you.

_Nice to see you, too._

What are you doing here? I didn't invite you this time.

_I come back whenever you try to push me away, remember? I'm the symbolic, unwanted conscience of decisions you wish you had made. _

Oh. The slinky thing again?

_I was actually going to go with the Rubix Cube in this instance, but if a coiled spring is more fascinating for you, fine._

Hmm.

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_Jimmy_?

What?

_Why are you wandering my kitchen at 2:30 in the morning?_

I can't sleep. Is that all right with you?

_You don't need to be so defensive. And you won't find anything to eat in the fridge, either. I can't cook to save my life._

That's why you're a doctor, not a chef.

_And yet you manage to pull both off. _

Are you here just to berate me for not making meals for you anymore?

_No. Although come to think of it… Let me add that to the list of my complaints. _

Oh, great. Right alongside your thinning hair and the increasing price of Vicodin.

_Somebody's snarky this morning._

Yeah, well, I'm giving you a break from the sarcasm.

_All right. In complete seriousness then: I want to know why you wouldn't kiss me. _

Why do I suddenly have to explain everything? You're the one that can't have a normal conversation without using political metaphors. Can't you just take it for what it is? Why do you have to know everything?

_You're the one asking all the questions suddenly. You're very impatient when you're tired. _

Yeah. Let's blame lack of sleep again. Such a convenient excuse.

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_Jimmy. Hey. _

House, what do you want?

_I want to know what you're waiting for. This is your fifteenth lap around my kitchen, and unless you're going for some record I don't know about, it seems like a pretty pointless thing to do. Did you know that the Taj Mahal was a Valentine's Day gift a man built for his dead wife? _

His _dead _wife? Why would he do that?

_I don't know. Seems pretty pointless. I thought maybe you could offer some insight into it, considering youdoing laps around my apartment doesn't seem to serve any purpose either._

Well, I've got to do something. I already watched the rerun of the game.

_Fifty bucks says the outcome was the same_.

God. Time is so slow.

_Ah hah. So you are waiting for something. What_?

Fine. I'm—I'm waiting for you to play piano. Are you happy?

_Is… Is that all_?

Yes. You knew that's what it is anyway.

_I know. I just like hearing you say it._

There you go, then. I said it. Can you leave now?

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_Jimmy. You're still __hiding something._

For the last time, no, I'm not. But I am ending this conversation now.

_I'll make a note for us to come back to it later._

You're not going to play piano, are you?

_And you're not going to tell me your secret._

I don't _have_ a secret!

_Me thinks you doth protest too much. Come on, Jimmy. You don't kiss someone and then avoid them for weeks on end. You don't invent those pathetic excuses if you're thinking clearly, either. There's something you haven't told me. You've already professed your undying love… So what could this be?_

That flair for the overdramatic really is not your most attractive quality.

_But it gets you so flustered._

And that's a good thing? House. I am not some marionette puppet you can control for entertainment. Not all the strings are dangling from your fingers. Sometimes… Sometimes you just have to let things go.

_People don't let things go. They give up, because people are tired and stupid and weak—_

And you're cynical.

_And you're still hiding something_.

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_Jimmy. Why is it that you always need somebody?_

I do not. What I do need is some sleep.

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An insistent tapping on his shoulder shattered his uneven slumber.

"Wilson. Get up."

The younger man groaned, lifting his head groggily from the kitchen table, where he'd finally drifted off late last night. To his bleary amazement, House was already dressed and halfway out the door, having stopped momentarily to harass the oncologist with a few pokes of his cane.

"Cuddy called this morning. She said the patient's taken a turn for the worse."

Wilson tiredly rubbed his forehead, blinking in consternation at his wristwatch. "House… It's four in the morning… How bad is she?"

"Oh, she's _fine_," House quipped as he picked up his bike helmet from the closet. "She just wanted a second opinion on the draperies she was putting in her living room. Apparently, she's leaning towards this horrendous shade of peach. Cuddy was desperate. Needed me to talk her out of it."

"Peach. Sounds serious. You know, House, patients might appreciate it if you took them a bit more seriously."

Scoffing, House rolled his eyes. "Quick, call up Foreman. I'm missing the be-nice-to-others lobe of my brain."

Wilson dragged himself stiffly out of his seat, stretching, listening to the swish of House's leather jacket as he swung it over his shoulders. Whatever it was, it was serious. Wilson decided his shirt was reasonably okay and dug out an unwrinkled coat to throw over top. On second thought, he found a tie to change into as well.

House pushed open the door of the apartment and Wilson followed before it shut behind them both. The briskness in the air was melting into a late spring warmth already. He turned to House, who was easing onto the motorcycle and trying to look as if it weren't the slightest bit of a problem for his leg. Wilson glanced away momentarily, knowing how well House could read his sympathetic expression, and how much he hated him for it.

"So… The batter finally swung?"

"I'm not _talking_ about the does-she-doesn't-she have-cancer patient," House said, perpetually annoyed in his morning haste.

"Who…?"

"This is the purple-haired one. From clinic duty." He nodded towards the front stoops for Wilson to hurry up. "Get on. I'll explain on the way."


	4. Change

Thanks so much for the reviews! Now, not to leave everyone hanging…

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Wilson's mind was still reeling from the bike ride into work, the unfamiliarity feel of leather beneath his hands and the sweet, velvety smell of gasoline glimmering amid his senses. The wind whistled through the helmet House had tossed him as he climbed on the motorcycle.

The land had been moving so fast beside them. Picking up speed, green landscape blended into the drab gray of concrete and asphalt, whirling and spinning into a violent illusion of uniformity, of completeness, of smooth reason.

Despite the speed, despite the sensory rush, Wilson's nerves were shot, frayed into a million strands. Electrical panic rippled through him as time inevitably whittled down. The baseball game seemed years in the past; House's apartment set like an empty shell he'd crawled out of and left to drift back to watery depths.

Secrets hummed in his ears.

At the hospital, Wilson had listened obediently during the white board brainstorm. He didn't hear a word of what was said. He had followed Cameron, Chase, and Foreman into the young woman's room for medical observation. He couldn't remember a piece of what he saw.

Maybe the patient was sick; maybe she was delusional. Maybe she was important.

Of course she was. Importance isn't a matter of opinion; it's a matter of perception.

But _none_ of it mattered, Wilson realized. Foggy accusations of secrets clung to his mind like uneven wallpaper, unavoidable and obvious, annoying and yet final.

Unless he tore down the walls, the wallpaper would stay. And he had no intention of lowering his guard for even the briefest of moments. He'd done enough of that in the past two weeks.

Returning from the patient's room, he drifted passed Cuddy's office, meeting her eyes significantly through the blinds. She moved as if she wanted to say something and then thought better of it. A quiet nod sufficed.

They'd spoken already. Yesterday, before he'd gone back to his apartment, before he'd met up with House to catch the baseball game.

That conversation had been watered-down, of course, cloaked with a thin gossamer lie that Wilson hated but was desperate enough to use. The real reason for his decision was too complicated. Even he couldn't quite figure it out.

And some things just weren't meant to be figured out. It was not a lapse in personal character; it was not a flaw in commitment or resolve or respect. A person was not necessarily tired or stupid or weak when they failed to justify a blatant reason.

It just was. It was safer not to complicate simplicity.

Reaching the elevator, Wilson hoped no one had stopped in his office yet, before he had had a chance to explain. As the button blinked its off-yellow light and the doors whooshed opened, Cameron appeared on the other side. Her hair was swept back from her face, the faintest hint of a curl unraveling her dark hair around her shoulders.

She looked pale, skin blank with a stark vacancy of emotion.

She stared at him.

She'd been to his office. Or talked to Cuddy. Maybe both.

Wilson stepped inside the elevator dutifully. After all, it had opened. He couldn't very well just walk away and act as if he hadn't seen her waiting, expecting something of an adequate explanation. Her glossed eyes swam like watercolors waiting to be poured out on something, to give color and life and purpose to an image.

_She lives vicariously through everyone_, Wilson thought to himself, standing beside her as he pressed an elevator button for his level. _She's composed of so many emotions, she can't even decide which one to choose when she's searching for her own, innate reaction._

Cameron touched his sleeve gently. It was such a slight gesture Wilson could ignore it and convince himself he never felt it at all.

"Does he know?" she asked.

The elevator clicked, shuddered, stopped.

The doors parted. Wilson stepped between the gap, turning for a second to watch as they shut once more. And Cameron was lost inside again, taken away as if caught in the palm of some distant, retracting hand.

_No. He doesn't know. And it's easier this way._

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He'd started this yesterday, which was why he'd been late getting to House's for the game. He'd finish it now.

The books went on the bottom. They were heaviest, the bulkiest, and gave some stability to the piles. Wilson figured he had most memorized—he'd read through them so many times. He had one from his first year of medical school, still dog-eared and highlighted with fading yellow, his handwriting adorning the white space of columns with personal notes. Writing in a different style appeared alongside of it, too. House's handwriting, from when he'd taught the class. Wilson closed the book, shutting his mind to the memory.

On top of the books, carefully, were the medical awards and diplomas in frames, stuck between glass like interesting specimens to be peered at, poked and prodded, but never quite taken seriously. Sure. Nice to look at. And they served some purpose, of course. But in the end, they remained behind the cold sheet of glass, numb and frozen.

Between those went the trophies. Some brass, other just artificially heavy plastic coated in a faux gold material so it caught the sunlight, encouraging onlookers to appreciate the gleam. He didn't remember what the majority were for, and he didn't particularly bother to read them now, given the circumstances.

Pens, staplers, random files, an empty picture frame he'd yet to fill with an image of someone important to him. These lay strewn atop the previous piles of his work possessions.

He closed the boxes and gave one look around the hollow, empty office.

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"Where the _hell_ is Wilson?"

Cuddy literally jumped, startled, as House barged into her office. She couldn't remember seeing him this worked up, even when he went off the Vicodin, though that really didn't count—at least he'd been mellow that time, the detoxing sapping his energy. But now, she could sense something forcefully ripping at his seams, taut and on the verge of violently snapping.

"He's—he's not here," Cuddy stammered. She stared, amazed, at House. "It's already two."

"And he works until _five_."

The words hung strangely in the air. House half-wondered if he'd said something wrong by the puzzled, strained look on Cuddy's face. Words seemed to be stalling as they worked their way to her mouth, getting jammed in the traffic of her confusion.

"He—" Cuddy left the sentence break, as if she expected House to fill in the blanks. He raised his eyebrows and slanted his stature forward, as if that might derive an explanation more quickly.

She stared helplessly as she slowly realized House didn't know. Why Wilson had never told him, she couldn't imagine.

"Dr. Wilson resigned yesterday."


	5. Apartment

Thanks _so much_ for reviewing, everyone! It's really encouraging. Now, on with the story...

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Wilson's new address, which Cuddy passed on to House at his demand, surprised the elder doctor a bit. Wilson's apartment was along the outskirts of the city, and when House saw the lopsided brick-faced building it annoyed him to no end. Apparently, Wilson had figured House was worse than an overpriced, decrepit, plumbing fiasco of a home. Moving out was one thing; to rather tolerate a dismal apartment than House's company was inexcusable.

The concrete stairs whisked under House's Nikes as he ascended to the second floor. Only one of the rooms upstairs was occupied, and it wasn't even locked.

House threw open the door with even less regard than he usually observed for others' privacy, which was never much to begin with. He slammed it shut for selfish emphasis, as if he could trap Wilson inside the room with overdone dramatics.

A ratty sofa—left over from previous owners, House assumed—and a dismal coffee table were the only furnishings. A mattress did lay discarded at the far end, but it looked utterly unused. All the sheets and pillows were flung over the couch.

The apartment's walls faded into a grimy off-white; the window slacked to the side as if it had gotten tired of keeping itself in a proper upright position. There was a toilet sticking out right in the corner of the room. It should have struck House as comical, but the sight of Wilson standing distantly across the room negated any light-hearted humor.

The oncologist was just finishing folding his suit into a suitcase. In jeans and a t-shirt, Wilson seemed oddly out of place—House was so used to catching him in his professional attire. Even when he'd crash at House's, he typically kept his dress shirt on, rumpled as it might have been. There was something conceding, surrendering, about the bland outfit he wore now.

"_Wilson_," House snapped. "What are you doing?"

The younger man had heard the door open and slam. Even more powerfully, he'd felt House enter. There weren't many people that could change the atmosphere of a room, but House was one of them. The entire apartment seemed to cave with the annoyance House imposed on it.

Wilson indifferently clicked the suitcase shut, eyes locked on his own fingers as he systemically flicked the brass locks. To House, the entire scene looked ridiculous, too simplistic—_one _suitcase? There had to be more possessions Wilson owned; he couldn't be leaving _now_; he'd have to go back to Julie's and pick them up, rent a U-Haul, take them to…to where? House stared, dumbfounded, at the sparse luggage.

"I thought you just resigned."

"I'm going to be late." His voice was deceptively calm, barely audible.

"Shit, Wilson." Betrayal rang in House's voice. "What the hell are you talking about? You—you don't just decide to quit and not even tell me!"

Wilson lugged the cumbersome suitcase with him as he tried to gather himself and walk with some dignity to the door. House stiffly stepped in front of him, grabbing for the bag, but Wilson pulled it back. A firm, pained expression chiseled the oncologist's expression into tight grooves.

"Move, House."

"Drop it now, James."

"_Move_!"

With a quick, evasive step, Wilson tried to circle passed House on his right side, figuring the cane might deter his movement. But House managed instead to stick out his cane horizontally, blocking Wilson's exit. He yanked the suitcase from his friend's unsuspecting hands and let it thump to the ground harshly, sliding as House kicked it out of the way with his good leg. Wilson was in the middle of a protest when House cornered him against the wall, smothering Wilson's objections with a rough kiss.

"You didn't think I'd notice you were gone?"

Wilson, stunned and caught off guard, murmured an incomprehensible reply against House's lips, eyes fluttering closed despite himself. He stretched his back out against the wall behind him, trying to suppress the writhing that was convincing his arms to encircle House's shoulders, his fingers to digress into his hair.

His restraint lasted all of two seconds as he heard House's cane clatter dismissively to the floor. House's warmth seeped porously into him.

The taste of spearmint overpowered Wilson again, reminding him of verdant green mint leaves in coffee. He'd collapsed into the sensation before; if he did again, he might not emerge this time.

Wilson's body twisted in sudden panic. House's hands trailed insistently to his hips, steadying him.

"How interesting do you want this to get, Jimmy?"

Despite the alarm that was splintering apart in his mind, Wilson couldn't think of any constructive thing to do with his mouth other than kiss him back. Talking, for instance. Talking seemed fairly obsolete when House had him pressed up against a wall. Lips flickered against and apart from each other, brushing, biting, fleeting, probing.

"Answer me."

Nonsense clouded Wilson's brain. Everything was short-circuiting. "I—I don't know."

"Figure it out. Soon. Or we're going to have to stop now."

"We don't have to…" Wilson sighed into his mouth, body contorting, his spine arching under House's hands, "…to do anything."

"But you want to."

House yanked him by the belt so that the entire lengths of their bodies were touching. Wilson swallowed his cry with another kiss, this one deeper, as he lost his fingers in the other man's short-cropped hair. Blunt, hasty touches were suddenly slipping beneath his shirt.

Wilson grasped House's hand between his own. Hesitation flooded his eyes.

"I'm moving to New York."

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Somewhere in the apartment, water was humming inconspicuously through the pipes. Wilson had forgotten to close a window. Sounds from the streets crept in faintly, as if they were smuggled and stolen, trespassing.

"New York?" House's hands stopped, losing feeling at Wilson's shirt. He had a sinking feeling a sudden bought of paralysis had overtaken him. He couldn't feel anything, the unreality sweeping like a glacier over him. "Come on… I know the Mets are having a great year, but it's a bit too early to jump on their bandwagon isn't it?" House offered a skewed smile, but the fullness of the joke didn't quite reach his eyes.

Wilson turned away, slipping slightly out from House's arms. He picked a spot just below House's Adam's apple and focused on it. It was less condemning than the eyes that peered through him, unraveling him.

"I know a few doctors there. They… They said they'd be able to get me a job; I can work my way up again—"

"James, stop. Are you listening to yourself?"

Upset, the younger man's voice raised another octave. "Are _you_ listening to me?"

"Yes. And it's complete bullshit."

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "House, this isn't your decision!" he snapped, ripping himself away from his friend and the stifling embrace. "I'm leaving. I'm—" His eyes leveled, color rushing to his face. "I'm not going to give us the chance to hurt each other."

"You're not giving us a chance for anything."

"And why do you suddenly care about that? You never did before." His thoughts had stumbled, tripping up in the dust and dirt of every self-protective action they'd both taken over the years, constructing lies and walls in relationships. It had all finally compiled and forced them to fall in the last few weeks. Wilson stared at the window glass and tried to resurrect some empathy, anything, but there was nothing. "You certainly never cared about me."

"I never cared…" House repeated it quietly, sarcasm dripping on the end as his words lapsed into a rough laugh. "I never—" He turned back toward Wilson, eyes scathed to a brilliant azure. "You're the one who doesn't care. You _never_ care. You think you can love whoever you want and it will only stay _your_ problem?"

"I make mistakes!" Wilson's voiced cracked. "Nobody makes excuses for me like they do for you." He ran his hand through his hair, overwhelmed. "I can't _blame _Stacy or some botched diagnosis for my problems. I've—I've screwed up my own life. I'm human, and I'm _sorry _you can't relate to that!"

House faltered. Wilson was always so exposed emotionally it was nearly embarrassing. He reminded House of how mortal people were, how subjective they were to forces not of their control. Wilson was the one person who could send House's world sprawling violently off its axis.

He realized how heavily Wilson was breathing, as if he'd just dragged his guilt farther than it should have ever been carried. What the hell had just happened? Why were they screaming at each other? Why were they ripping themselves away?

House craned his neck, accosting the ceiling silently, as if it were its fault nothing ever seemed to work, no matter how badly he wanted it to. Furious, he tried to stalk off but in his anger he'd had forgotten that he no longer had his cane.

Lurching for a wall but coming up well short, House braced himself for the fall.

Concerned arms caught him just before he hit the ground.

Wilson evaded his gaze, reaching for the cane. House watched him wordlessly as the younger man offered his shoulders for stability. Even now, he'd come to his aid. Even now, amid fighting and screaming and irreversible accusations.

Even now.

Something tightened in House's throat. Slowly, Wilson handed him the cane.

"You might need this."

House shook his head, refusing to take it. Wilson blinked, unsure, as House carefully pushed the cane out of his friend's hands and twined their fingers together instead.

"I need you."

Eyes locked, one pair a boundless blue, the other a pleading copper. The couch gave way beneath them.

At three o'clock, a plane departed Princeton airport for New York City. A Dr. James Wilson was not on it.


	6. Piano

Cross your fingers... I'm sad to see this wrap up, but all things must end. Hope it's the one you were looking for...

-----------------------------------

The apartment didn't have a clock. Judging by the stretching shadows through the window, though, it was leaning further into the evening.

House glanced over across the couch at Wilson. The younger man's hair was completely disheveled, having been pushed back and stroked through so his forehead was now exposed. A faint gleam of sweat still caught light on his skin, though the flushed color had faded a few hours ago. A pool of sheets gathered demurely around his waist.

"What was your first impression of me?"

House groaned good-naturedly, keeping his eyes closed. "You're one of those people who like to talk and reflect afterwards, aren't you?"

"I just asked a question, House. I didn't ask you to _cuddle_."

A rolling chuckle emerged from House's sated drowsiness. "Well, _that's _reassuring." He quirked an eyebrow, to which Wilson grinned back. After a sigh and pause, House opened his eyes and examined the ceiling, recalling. "When I taught you back in med school… you needed to be liked."

Wilson waited for more but nothing else came. The expectant confusion that scrawled across Wilson's face prompted House to continue.

"You knew you were smart. You were thorough in your research. You had a great rapport with teachers and students…particularly the women."

"Funny, House. That's why I went to med school. For the women."

"Can't blame you. They have a tendency to be a bit _too_ smart, though. They should come with a Surgeon General's warning or something."

Wilson laughed. "Smart women are dangerous to your health?"

"So are smart men."

"Well," retorted Wilson cryptically, "_you_ made the decision to smoke."

"It's not my fault it's addictive."

Wilson let the thought drift idly around in his head, weaving patterns of contentment. "'Hold you in his armchair…'" He sighed. "You know what my first impression of you was?"

"If I wanted to know, I'd ask." House paused, waiting for a conservative expression to flicker across Wilson's face before changing his mind. "What was it?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

Wilson grinned, closing his eyes momentarily to fondly recall the memory. "I didn't have one. I was so intent on trying to figure you out, and I never could."

"Well." House raised his eyebrows, not sure if he wanted an answer. "Have you?"

The younger man shrugged a shoulder, then leaned over to place a chaste kiss on House's forehead. "No. I don't think I ever can. And I don't think I want to. It's what I love about you."

House wrinkled his nose, but he returned a kiss to Wilson's lips. "You know, Jimmy, we're going to have to put a restraining order on that word. No sense in overusing it."

_Pick your battles_, Wilson thought to himself. He stretched out his legs, sighing, making sure House had enough room alongside him. He felt like he was forgetting something.

"You know we're going to have to get your job back."

"Oh, that was it." Wilson frowned. "I don't know how I'm going to explain this to Cuddy…"

House smiled. "But I'm a step ahead of you. I already told her I might be able to convince you to stay. I told her not to start taking applications until she heard back from me."

"Overconfident as usual." Wilson eyed him carefully. "You were really that sure you'd get me back?"

"Oh, maybe not get you _back_. But _get_ you, yes. I've always been sure about that."

Wilson rolled his eyes, as if merely humoring House's antics sapped his energy. Meanwhile, the latter had picked himself up from the couch and started retreiving his clothes.

The younger man tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. "Where are you going?"

"_We're_ going back to my apartment. _Our_ apartment." House tossed him his t-shirt and jeans as he went along. Wilson grinned. "And then we're calling up whoever you rented this disaster from and saying you've found a permanent home and will not be needing this place anymore."

--------------------------------

_Hey, House_.

What the—_Jimmy_? Is that you?

_I thought I'd drop in for a visit. God, it's a mess up here in your head_. _You sure have a lot to think about_.

You've given me a lot to think about.

_Is everything all right? You've been awake for a while now._

I like watching you sleep. You look… I don't know. Content.

_I feel it. And you?_

I feel… It's strange. I can't put my finger on it.

_It's called not-being-miserable. It's perfectly normal. Healthy, even. You'll adjust to the feeling soon enough._

You're the expert, Jimmy. Hey, by the way, are we going to work tomorrow?

_Probably should. Don't want rumors to start already._

All in good time. I wonder what Cameron would say if she saw me kiss you?

_Let's save that for another day, shall we? _

Fine, fine. If you insist. Did you happen to see where I put my Vicodin?

_In your coat pocket, I think. Hey… House? While you're up…? _

Yes?

_Do you think you could play something on the piano? Just even a quick interlude, I don't care_.

Ooh, "interlude." Somebody's been studying up on their music.

_I know nothing about music. I can learn, though_.

How about this…?

_I remember that piece. I've heard it a few times before. Bach? Mozart? _

You're just throwing names out there now, aren't you, Jimmy?

_Ha-ha, caught me_. _Seriously, House, what is it?_ _Something you wrote_?

I guess. It's just some rendition of something.

_My favorite_.

-------------------

END


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